


A Conjugal Visit

by CaptainR0cket



Series: Loki’s Monstrous Children [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Norse Religion & Lore, Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Thor: The Dark World
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:34:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24600898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainR0cket/pseuds/CaptainR0cket
Summary: Loki entertains a visitor in his cell.
Relationships: Angrboða | Angerboda/Loki (Norse Religion & Lore), Loki/Angrboda
Series: Loki’s Monstrous Children [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1781284
Kudos: 16





	A Conjugal Visit

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another attempt to reconcile Loki's monstrous children with the Marvel Cinematic Universe. Events from another fic, An Evening in Stuttgart, are mentioned. Takes place during Loki's imprisonment on Asgard during Thor: The Dark World.

A noise came, whisper-soft, barely heard over the ever-present hum of the containment shield. It was enough to coax the occupant of the cell away from the dark thoughts that tortured him, from the feverish, half-formed plans that circled in his mind. Loki lifted his head from his arm.

She stood at the foot of his bed, caught for a moment between the dimensions, dressed for battle. She stepped, altered, into the shared space of the cell. The form she wore was Asgardian-smooth and graceful, draped over with lavender silk, hair curled to mimic court fashion. 

She would be a shadow, a thought on the edge of the guard’s consciousness, should he care enough to cease his unwavering perusal of the wall opposite. The idea would linger for an instant: _wouldn’t it be nice if His Disgraced Highness had a companion to speed along the lonely hours_? The thought would be barely enough for the guard to report, and yet report it he would when it came time for his duty to end. The duty commander would mention it in turn to the court mage, and he would deliberate for the better part of a day before speaking to Odin.

The All-Father would know then, if he did not already, that the Witch of the Iron Wood had come to call.

It didn’t need to be said, and yet Loki said it, and hated himself. “You’ll attract attention.”

Angrboda smiled, a gentle curve of ruby lips and pale cheek which made him long even more for her natural state: fierce and ruthless, painted over with lines of ocher and ash. “What is the All-Father’s attention to me?” she asked. “A summons, which I will ignore? A hard hour for the statesmen of Jotunheim and Asgard? I am still on Jotunheim, and you are alone in your cell. The treaty stands.”

“You are the woe of politicians everywhere.”

“Let them earn their keep.”

“Indeed.” Loki stood, depositing the book that had rested open over his chest onto the small table that graced the corner of the room. Frigga’s offerings of peace: he’d read them all. Frustration buzzed in his skull, pride wounded that his lover should see him brought so low, little more than a caged animal.

Angrboda’s sharp eyes followed him as he made a circuit of the cell. Predatory, wary. “Be careful,” he commented, tone neutral. “You’ll never pass for an Asgardian with eyes like that.”

“Neither will you,” she said softly, and it struck deep, a barbed thorn between his ribs, sharpening his attention.

Loki held out his arms, indicating his form, and bowed from the waist. “A longer sentence than the one I currently serve,” he retorted coldly. 

“There are some on Jotunheim who consider you to be a prisoner of war,” she said.

“How sad for them.” Loki paused. “Do you consider yourself to be in their number?”

“I know better,” the witch replied. The face she wore was blank, a doll’s perfect face, life showing only through those glittering eyes. “You are here of your own volition.”

“Am I?”

“There is no cage that will hold you.”

Loki snorted, and folded himself into the cell’s single chair. “Your confidence is refreshing,” he said drily, his turn to draw blood. It fell short, more self-deprecating and wounded than he intended. Her expression altered, tightening from neutrality into something akin to grief and… pity. His reply was sharp. “Don’t.”

Angrboda crossed the cell and knelt gracefully at his feet, close enough to touch, had she been corporeal. “Savage, small-minded Asgard,” she cursed, eyes black, and he knew that somewhere across the realms a small fire had sprung to life, or a well had run dry. Her gaze sharpened. “You did not tell them of the Mad Titan. Loki, why?”

Abuse heaped upon more abuse; it would not have made a difference. Loki shrugged, uncomfortable, the memory of fear pricking at his skin. “I have made my choices.”

She sat back on her heels, silent.

“Why did you come here, Angrboda?” he asked quietly, attempting and failing to keep the weariness from his voice. “Do you come to comfort me? To tell me of my son?”

“Fenrir has grown,” she replied. “Your son will one day be large enough and powerful enough to span realms, Loki. His sharp ears listen for your voice; his heart is fierce and holds Asgard to blame for the ills that have befallen you and Jotunheim.” 

Loki considered. He did not deserve that loyalty, for he had been nothing but a stranger to his son. “Who sits on the throne of Jotunheim?”

“Helblindi Laufeyjarson.”

Another brother, another throne. “Does he acknowledge Fenrir’s claim?”

“Fenrir is unknown to him. He would not sit on the throne of Jotunheim, in any case.”

“I imagine not.” His wolfish son - Angrboda’s wolfish son - would not tolerate the yoke of leadership.

Angrboda stood, and settled herself across from him, fingers plucking at the edge of the silk coverlet that lay across the bed. Loki spoke. “There’s something else.”

“Helblindi has another reason to look over his shoulder, though he knows it not,” she said, and her hands left off worrying the coverlet to rise and twist her dark hair over one pale shoulder. “The protection spell you cast in Stuttgart failed.”

Loki’s heart thumped. “Not possible.”

Her eyes flashed. “Altogether possible,” she retorted. “Magic is bound to the laws of the Elements. Your child was predestined; the Elements themselves willed him to be so.”

The chair legs grated against the floor as Loki pushed himself to his feet. “Perhaps.” A trick played on the Trickster, an assertion of dominance in a moment he’d been certain had been all his own. Loki shivered, the memory of the sentient, clarion call of the Tesseract too close for comfort. “The child… another son?”

“Another strong son,” she said quietly, dark eyes missing nothing. “Another beautiful child.”

“Show me.”

Her eyes drifted shut; her form shimmered. A tableau appeared behind her, and he recognized the great hall of her keep in the Iron Wood. A fire roared in the hearth, and a dark-haired child sat before it. A tall youth sat with him, entertaining the child with a rough-hewn toy.

Loki had thought himself grown familiar with pain, but the feeling that overcame him as he watched the scene was sharp and heavy, and caused the breath to catch in his throat. “They grow quickly.”

“Such is the nature of our children.”

The youth - Fenrir, in Jotunn-form - caught up the child. The child shifted, altered, the lines on his skin twisting into sinuous patterns. His round, sweet face lengthened and changed into that of a large snake, and he wound his scaly body around his brother’s arms and torso.

Loki swallowed hard. Both children were shape-shifters who bore elemental magic as easily as other children laughed and played. With years of study and training they would… they could… become unbeatable warriors. God-killers.

“You are right to keep them hidden,” Loki said quietly, and ran a trembling hand over his face, paternal pride and longing warring with sharp, dangerous curiosity. What could these children do, under his tutelage? Under his care? “The child - what is his name?”

“Jormungandr.” The scene disappeared, and Angrboda stood before him once again.

“Are they safe?”

“For now,” she said. “The People of the Iron Wood revere them, but I cannot hide them from outsiders forever.”

“No.” If Helblindi, the erstwhile king of Jotunheim, did not find them, then Odin All-Father would. 

Children stolen in the night, their talents weaponized. Loki looked at Angrboda and saw the same fear in her eyes.

“What will you do?”

“There are wild places on Midgard. With care we will escape detection.” She studied him as she settled on the edge of the bed, and he felt a surge of fondness.

“You came to ask permission,” Loki appraised.

A smile broke free from its mooring. “Never that,” she retorted, eyes bright. 

“No?” he teased, knowing full well that in the course of their relationship that it was most often he who asked permission: permission to caress, to hold, to kiss.

“No,” she affirmed, and he returned her smile. She looked at home there, against the luxurious simplicity of his furnishings, the form she wore creating an illusion of belonging more apparent than any he had ever felt on Asgard. He thought of her in Stuttgart, in a similar form, wearing a dress that flowed over her generous curves like water from a pitcher. He stood and crossed to sit beside her. If he concentrated he could imagine the scent of herbs and woodsmoke that clung to her dark hair.

“Show me your true form,” Loki said softly, and her eyes glowed. “Give me something to sweeten my dreams when I grow weary of planning my escape.”

Angrboda's smile broadened, showing her strong white teeth. She drew a breath, and the illusion she wore shimmered, altered. He thought perhaps she would show him her warrior-self, antlered, glowing with power and ready for battle.

She surprised him, however, as she most often did, for she appeared to him with her lined face shining and clean, dressed in a simple tunic, hair plaited as if for sleeping. Loki drew himself up the bed, curling onto his side, and she moved with him, stretching out to mirror his position.

Touching her would dispel the projection of her form, and so he curled his arm under the pillow, and let his hand rest on the coverlet. “Tell me of my sons,” he whispered, and so she did, painting sweet pictures with her words all through the long night until he slept.


End file.
